


The Difference Between Now and Then

by fromunderthegaytree



Series: He Was Born To Blow Your Mind [2]
Category: Bully (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Isolation, Multi, One-Sided Attraction, Past Child Abuse, the 80s, you should read 'born to blow your mind' first or else this wont make sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 21:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16525124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromunderthegaytree/pseuds/fromunderthegaytree
Summary: Following the events of 'Born To Blow Your Mind', Pete deals with the loss of a friend and the accompanying hate and love it brings.





	The Difference Between Now and Then

Summer, 1986

After the dance, Pete doesn't know how to feel. Though the way he described it in his journal was that he was an explorer discovering a world of hurt. Or he was a scientist, making the breakthrough that the world despised him. He was a detective finding out that Gary loved him. Key word: loved, used in the past tense. But however he describes the gaping mental wound, it doesn't feel any better. 

All the sappy poetry in the world, ones describing sunsets as leaking colours on a sky canvas or life as an orchestra, even those couldn't help. For no matter how many times he writes: 'I hate Gary Smith', he just ends up loving him more. It's disgusting to think how willing he was, running towards heartbreak. A lamb to slaughter. While he was caught in the confines of his own mind, he didn't realize how rapidly summer was coming. He is tied down on a train track, watching as a freight train advanced towards him. 

As a freshman, he couldn't imagine anything better than summer. Long days, watching TV without anybody else in the dorm bitching, fireworks and that barbecue smell in the air. At one point in his life, he used the promise of summer as something to motivate him through schoolwork and bullies. These days, he anticipates the season with dread. He is dramatically disappointed. He'll be alone, he'll no longer have phoney friends to keep him company. Even if he had nerdy geeks in his social circle who mocked him for being effeminate or so anxious, he had somebody. 

Next year, Gary would be graduating. Next year, he'd be moving onto somebody else as a friend. Maybe somebody who isn't gay, somebody who is more pliable, anybody else, really. He thought about asking Gary sometimes, late at night. Only when quiet had settled, so that there wasn't any sound other than the pop machine's ambience, the occasional squeaking from mice and the wind outside. With Gary in his bed, pretending to be asleep.

Gary, calculating his breathing so every inhale was a snore and every exhale pushed out of his lips - only in the way people breathe when they sleep. Gary's make-believe could anyone, but it couldn't fool Pete. From his bed from across the room, he could see the moonlight basking his face in weak light. Like silhouette puppets, his eyelashes' shadows danced upon his cheek; Pete could see his scar: shiny as spare change at the bottom of a fountain. But when Gary slept, you could compare his placid face to a sleeping baby's, and you'd still have difficulty choosing which one looked more innocent. 

When Gary pretended, his eyebrows were knit together, creating a crease between his brows. Lips were pursed, shoulders hunched, nostrils were flared. All in an attempt to keep Pete from asking: why don't you love me anymore?

Other than watching him sleep, which he realized was probably the creepiest thing you could do, they only glanced at each other. The kind of way childhood friends look at each other, when one's a jock and the other's a geek. Just like Thad and Dan, worlds apart in social status despite being related. 

Not seeing Gary in the hallways didn't bother Pete as much as when he did see him. After the dance, he used to give a wave. Nothing eager, of course, just a twitch of his fingers. Gary only stared back. He didn't even glare at him, which he did to almost everybody. A glance, which was torture for Pete. He'd rather have him hate his guts, scowling and seizing every opportunity to make his life as living hell. At least that, that was better than complete indifference. He often recalled reading somewhere that it was better to have God, shaking with rage and hatred for you than for him to not care. It was like that for him, except his God was Gary. Did that mean that he was a devote follower, thrown out of heavens' doors?

Another indicator of Gary's opinion towards him was the stolen journal from last spring. The journal he never returned. It was the journal underneath Gary's better, lounging against a muddy runner and an underneath an empty cigarette carton. Once, when checking underneath the bed, peering past colonies of dust bunnies, he realized something. The sneaker moved. Only by an inch, the left lace had rested mostly on the floor on Monday ( when he had checked a few days ago, in case, because Gary could easily spread it around like a manifesto ), but it was curled on the rest of the shoe, no longer on the floor. Did that mean Gary had been looking at it? Did it mean he was trying to recreate its initial conditions, just in case, Pete was watching its state? 

Still, it didn't make a goddamn difference if the sneaker moved sometimes. A false comfort can only provide so much reassurance for so long... The school year was ending, Pete was alone. He didn't want to be alone anymore. 

 

Fall, 1982

There's a garden shed behind a house with tired green siding, once an Americana pastel green seems like a drowsy seasick colour after years of rain, years of neglect. The shingling, the house's teeth are pointed in different directions. The backyard drowns in a sea of leaves. The calm waves of reds, oranges and browns spread from the shed to the back porch. The owner of the lot, and the house and the shed claims that she hasn't really gotten to raking the yard. You know how it is. Life gets busy once you, a young kid yourself gets married to a rich man with a mellifluous voice and nice hair, burdens you with a kid, then he goes on vacation after vacation, coming home when he feels like it. 

In her shed, there are two boys. A ten year old and an eleven year old. In the dim light, a grubby hand can be seen grabbing a pellet gun. The eleven year old thrusts it into the younger boys' arms, before grabbing the chew tin containing the pellets. Shaking it, the sound 'chk-ing' fills the room. "That's music to my ears, Petey." The eleven year old coos, cracking it open to reveal the tiny hourglass figured pieces of metal. 

"Gary. I don't want to do this." He says, shoving the gun back into Gary's chest. It's heavy and cold, but that isn't what makes Pete scared. 

"Don't be a pussy." He snapped, using the recently discovered word for his vocabulary. "Besides," he says, leaving the shed, feeling the warm autumn sun greet them with its abundant brightness, "it's not like you haven't used it before." Regardless of how Pete's feeling, he follows him out to the front. 

"That was different. Your dad was teaching us. He's gonna be pissed off if we break something." 

Pete is Gary's superego. 

"Fine, go home." He spits, turning to glance over his shoulder. His eyes are brighter and more hateful than two pieces of burning coal. He dares him to go. After a few seconds, Pete simply shakes his head, deciding to join him. Might as well, it isn't like he has any other friends. 

They pry the gate open. By the time they step out, their arms are aching enough for them to call it quits. But they don't. They roam the neighbourhood, talking with the foulest language. They want the teenagers watching them from their yards or from their bedroom windows to be impressed. 

"I managed to lift a playboy magazine from my dad's office." Pete admits, "the girls are hot." Both of the statements are lies. His dad doesn't own any other magazine than National Geographic which is the opposite of sexy. Unless third world countries and animals are your thing. Besides, Pete isn't sure that he even likes girls. 

"Oh?" Gary asks, turning to look at him. His movements are choppy with the heavy gun resting on his breast. He raises his brows, impressed with Pete's supposed find. "Well. I found my dad's smokes. So fucking good." He shakes his head, smacking his lips. Gary is only partly lying. They were his mom's skinny cigarettes. 

"Oh, nice." He offers his approval. He begins to find comfort in what they are doing. Aside from the gun, he enjoys lying about the magazines, booze and drugs. It's like acting like a tough ol' cowboy. Plus, he knows Gary won't call him out because he could easily point out his bluff. But just as he begins to relax, Gary stops. He starts loading the gun. 

"What are you doing?" He hisses, trying to stop Gary. He grabs hold of his arm, his fingers wrapping around his wrist. "What if someone sees us?" He asks, eyes wide with worry. Gary only shakes him off, resuming with what he intends to do. 

"I'm doing what I said I was going to do." He shouts, screaming without any reasonable purpose. As he picks up the gun, with its butt resting on the dip of his collarbone and its barrel directed at a mailbox, Pete realizes what he is. He is not a monster. He is not the bullying friend. He is a child impersonating his own father. 

At ten years old, even Pete can click the gears together. He can't watch this, he feels sick. He looks away, staring at a car in the distance. It's approaching. The little blue dot growing until he can see its license plate. As it drives by, Gary pulls the trigger. There's the sound of the gun spitting out the pellet, following by the sound of the faded white mailbox denting. The car stops. 

This triggers Gary to spin around, still pointing his gun. This triggers Pete to have his first anxiety attack. He falls to the pavement, hyperventilating. His breaths are shallow, quick. Oxygen is stripped from the atmosphere into his shaking body and then carbon dioxide is thrown back out. He's woozy, his light brown face quickly turning to a jaundice colour. 

He can hear confrontation. He watches as Gary wrestles with a neighbour, tug-of-warring with the gun. Pete is going to die. His heart is going to collapse. He's dying. The neighbour finally snatches the gun away, pulling it away. Only then, does Gary cry. He starts shrieking, like a wounded animal. The sound is haunting, and it pulls Pete right out of his attack. Dumbfounded, he watches as the boy who talked about smoking cigarettes and watching porn on VHS turn into a toddler, terrified beyond belief. 

Jump to a few hours later, where Pete sits in Gary's kitchen. His mom is busy at the stove, her weak arms rising up and falling down as she mashes potatoes. She is quiet except for exhausted panting from labouring over a big meal for her husband's return. She doesn't say anything about the crying in the next room. In Dale's office, he's 'talking' about what the neighbour told him. What the neighbour saw Gary do. There's the sound of yelling, then a piercing scream. 

The woman freezes, so does Pete. They glance at each other, absolute fear trapped in their eyes but they don't say anything. There's a beat, then the office opens. Gary steps out, blood covering his face. It looks like war paint as it oozes from the gash which starts above his eyebrow and ends below the bottom lid. "What happened?" Pete asks but Gary's mom hushes him. They use a cloth to wipe his eye. The white cloth is pink after its use. They use a medical gauze to cover his eye, they use bandaids to cover the deep wound. 

They do not go to the hospital. 

Dale emerges from his office when dinner's ready. It isn't quiet, it isn't awkward at all. In fact, his father jokes about the gun incident. His mom asks about the cigarettes, giggling as though it were the funniest joke of all. Pete is sick. Excusing himself to go use the bathroom, he sneaks into the office. 

On the gorgeous maroon carpet, pieces of glass stick upwards into the air, sparkling like seaglass. The reek of spilt booze is everywhere. Brown blood is dried up, mixing in with the carpet's hue. Almost instantly, Pete knows Gary's dad hit him with a whiskey glass. And as if in a sitcom, where everything was timed perfectly, he hears laughter from the dining room. 

 

Summer, 1986

Only four years later but it's made all the difference. Gary is now covered in scars, some worse than the one received from Dale. Inside, his heart his murkier than ever. Swimming in pain that he stills carries, refusing to ask for help. Gary sometimes seems like a different person than who he used to be. He makes Pete think of a butterfly, but the reverse. Like he used to be this happier creature with colourful wings and bright eyes before resorting to a maggot like state. Still, he can still see that same boy he grew up with. Glimpses show when he accidentally compliments Pete, protects him. 

Tonight, Pete wants to talk to him. Even if he knows Gary'll pull the snoring gimmick like before. The room is silent, except for their own breathing. He doesn't look at him. His eyes are fixed on the band of line from the window that splays on the ceiling. "Do you remember the day where we used your dad's pellet gun without his permission?" Do you remember the day where he had hit you with a fucking glass? The day where your mother didn't cry when she saw your face was sticky with blood? The day you got your scar?

Gary answers with silence. Pete realizes it was possible that Gary was actually sleeping. All those times he stared at Gary, contorted face and all, he was really sleeping. Then Gary sighs. "Yeah, I remember."

Who couldn't?

"I'm sorry, Gary." He apologizes, wanting to relieve him with these words. 'Sorry' doesn't mean what it used to. He doesn't expect him to turn in his bed, shoot him a look of gratitude before admitting how much he loved him. 

Gary makes a sound, it comes from his nose. Pete thinks it's a laugh but he pretends he's only clearing his nose. "Yeah, I know you are." It isn't particularly hurtful but Pete doesn't know why his stomach sinks. "Why? Are you sorry that you didn't stop me from taking that gun?" The sleepiness quickly drops from his tone. He isn't yelling yet, but he will soon. 

"No, it's not that, Christ." Pete answers, gripping the sheet before pulling it over him until it domed over him. There's that quiet, this time, it's different. Only now, does Pete realize that silence was an invisible friend that he didn't know he needed. Now, a different kind of quiet intrudes - unsettling. "It's not." He could hear his voice become brittle. "I tried stopping you."

"Ah, I guess so, Petey." He scoffs, "I remember how nervous you were." He recalls, shifting in his bed. He sits up, propping himself on his elbows as he watches Pete. "Tell me," he sits cross-legged, resting both arms on his knees, "why are you sorry?" Was he trying to torture him? Was he trying to burn him with the cattle-brand that is life? 

"I don't know." Pete wants to shout at him, bringing his quiet meek voice into a madman's roar. He wants so desperately to be angry at him, but he's somewhat happy. Because in the first time in a month, Gary is speaking to him. The same boy who was supposedly indifferent was trying to make him hate him. Better to have God despise you than to have his indifference. "Because I could've taken the blame. Protect you-" 

"Okay, stop it-" Gary interjects, his sardonic smile replaced with a glower. 

"Protect you from your dad. Because he hit you with the drinking glass." He swallows hard and can hear it. His words were like dropping a bomb. But he knew that if he detonated a pipe bomb, Gary would give him Pearl Harbor's worst day. Pete peeks from underneath the sheet, looking at his dorm-mate's disgruntled mien. 

"He didn't do that, you sack of shit." Oh, Gary could call him a 'human waste' but he knew deep down that it was true. His daddy beat him on several occasions and mommy didn't do anything to stop him. 

"Okay, fine, then why did I see-" 

"I'll get out of my bed, and I'll smother you until you can't breathe. So, shut up!" He shouts, his face, once pale in the moonlight, was now pink. His eyes were wide, the whites shining, revealing hate for Pete. Pete didn't want to stop, he wanted to see how far he could go until Gary actually tried it. 

"We don't talk anymore." He says instead. The shift from accusing his father of being abusive to the silliest statement earned a dumbfounded expression from Gary. His chest still heaving with pants, eyes slowly relaxing, he laughs. 

"We don't, you crazy nut." He acknowledges, falling back onto the pillow. Pete smiles at the insult, feeling like he was normal, not insane. He was talking to Gary again, wasn't he? 

"For good reason, huh?" He jokes, hearing a soft chuckle from Gary's side of the room. "Are you excited for summer?" He asks.

"Yeah, I'll be able to get away from you. Goodnight." He curls underneath the thin blanket, a snake returning to its den. It wouldn't matter if Gary was joking or not, Pete's reaction would be the same. A smile spreads on his tired lips as he watched his roommate fall asleep. Finally, they were talking. Pete wants to keep talking but according to the digital alarm clock, it's late. So, even with a head running with thoughts, he goes to sleep. 

\--------

Pete expects everything to change the next day. When he walks to chemistry class, and when he passes Gary's locker, he expects a smile. But, when he does, Gary is busy talking to Christy. He slows down, just to catch a glimpse of them both. They're talking about the football team and Ted Thompson's recent herpes flare as though they were astrophysics discussing blackholes. It only affirms Pete's suspicions that high school is dumb. Dumb as rocks. 

On Christy's left hand, a shiny ring sparkles underneath the harsh fluorescent lighting. It surprises Pete but when he glances over to Gary's hands, he spots a ring on his left hand. The green gem captures Pete's awe. What is exactly going on here? He stops for a moment, his stomach churning as he thinks to ask Gary about it. His gaze cuts from the ring to Gary who's staring at him. His heart is racing within his chest. It's beating so hard, so fast that he can feel it in his throat. 

"What are you staring at, wimp?" Gary asks, shoving his jewelled hand into the pocket of his slacks. His finger hides from him. Like Pete discovered a secret that didn't want to be known. He gives Gary a hard look. And Gary looks back. The second bell rings, breaking Pete's glower. 

Later that day, Pete's outside with Beatrice. Their photography teacher, Ms. Philipps, decided that because it was such a nice day, why not photograph outside? Pete walks around the campus mindlessly, gripping onto the camera that he hasn't used yet. There's silence between Beatrice and him. Pete decides to focus on other things that aren't Gary. 

He decides to concentrate on the bead of sweat that slowly dribbles down the side of his face, the colour of Beatrice's shoes and the sound of a prefect yelling nearby. He feels calm for a moment, enlightened, even. He has finally succeeded at pretending Gary doesn't exist. Until he betrays himself by asking, "did you see the rings on Christy and Gary?"

His companion kneels by a soccer ball, slowly turning the focus ring to bring out its misshapen form. She simply hums in response. She takes a picture than looks over her shoulder. "They're promise rings." Pete doesn't know how to feel about Gary pledging himself to marriage. He's always thought that promise rings were ridiculously stupid, so did Gary... Why the sudden betrayal to one's beliefs? 

"You're joking." 

"What? No, I'm not. I wish I was. I think they'd be miserable together." 

"Do you think they are?"

He needs to know. Somebody has to tell him, even if they're biased, or if they hate Gary Smith. He just doesn't want to think about them being a perfect couple. He knows that he should be happy for them. After all, Gary's his friend. But he doesn't.

For the rest of the week, they don't speak. Even when Pete tries to strike up a conversation, he is reminded for his foolishness. Gary doesn't say anything to him, he doesn't ever talk about Christy, or getting married or getting hit by a glass. It would make perfect sense if it weren't for the fact that Pete's journal, which Gary keeps under the bed, is now underneath his pillow. For the life of him, Pete can't understand why Gary allows himself to be cruel while sleeping with Pete's secrets by his ear.


End file.
